Chapter 21 - Polly And Sally

Without a care to trouble her; abroad or at home, finding
inexhaustible varieties of amusement; seeing new places, making
new acquaintances--what a disheartening contrast did Cecilia's
happy life present to the life of her friend! Who, in Emily's
position, could have read that joyously-written letter from
Switzerland, and not have lost heart and faith, for the moment at
least, as the inevitable result?

A buoyant temperament is of all moral qualities the most
precious, in this respect; it is the one force in us--when
virtuous resolution proves insufficient--which resists by
instinct the stealthy approaches of despair. "I shall only cry,"
Emily thought, "if I stay at home; better go out."

Observant persons, accustomed to frequent the London parks, can
hardly have failed to notice the number of solitary strangers
sadly endeavoring to vary their lives by taking a walk. They
linger about the flower-beds; they sit for hours on the benches;
they look with patient curiosity at other people who have
companions; they notice ladies on horseback and children at play,
with submissive interest; some of the men find company in a pipe,
without appearing to enjoy it; some of the women find a
substitute for dinner, in little dry biscuits wrapped in crumpled
scraps of paper; they are not sociable; they are hardly ever seen
to make acquaintance with each other; perhaps they are
shame-faced, or proud, or sullen; perhaps they despair of others,
being accustomed to despair of themselves; perhaps they have
their reasons for never venturing to encounter curiosity, or
their vices which dread detection, or their virtues which suffer
hardship with the resignation that is sufficient for itself. The
one thing certain is, that these unfortunate people resist
discovery. We know that they are strangers in London--and we know
no more.

And Emily was one of them.

Among the other forlorn wanderers in the Parks, there appeared
latterly a trim little figure in black (with the face protected
from notice behind a crape veil), which was beginning to be
familiar, day after day, to nursemaids and children, and to rouse
curiosity among harmless solitaries meditating on benches, and
idle vagabonds strolling over the grass. The woman-servant, whom
the considerate doctor had provided, was the one person in
Emily's absence left to take care of the house. There was no
other creature who could be a companion to the friendless girl.
Mrs. Ellmother had never shown herself again since the funeral.
Mrs. Mosey could not forget that she had been (no matter how
politely) requested to withdraw. To whom could Emily say, "Let us
go out for a walk?" She had communicated the news of her aunt's
death to Miss Ladd, at Brighton; and had heard from Francine. The
worthy schoolmistress had written to her with the truest
kindness. "Choose your own time, my poor child, and come and stay
with me at Brighton; the sooner the better." Emily shrank--not
from accepting the invitation--but from encountering Francine.
The hard West Indian heiress looked harder than ever with a pen
in her hand. Her letter announced that she was "getting on
wretchedly with her studies (which she hated); she found the
masters appointed to instruct her ugly and disagreeable (and
loathed the sight of them); she had taken a dislike to Miss Ladd
(and time only confirmed that unfavorable impression); Brighton
was always the same; the sea was always the same; the drives were
always the same. Francine felt a presentiment that she should do
something desperate, unless Emily joined her, and made Brighton
endurable behind the horrid schoolmistress's back." Solitude in
London was a privilege and a pleasure, viewed as the alternative
to such companionship as this.

Emily wrote gratefully to Miss Ladd, and asked to be excused.

Other days had passed drearily since that time; but the one day
that had brought with it Cecilia's letter set past happiness and
present sorrow together so vividly and so cruelly that Emily's
courage sank. She had forced back the tears, in her lonely home;
she had gone out to seek consolation and encouragement under the
sunny sky--to find comfort for her sore heart in the radiant
summer beauty of flowers and grass, in the sweet breathing of the
air, in the happy heavenward soaring of the birds. No! Mother
Nature is stepmother to the sick at heart. Soon, too soon, she
could hardly see where she went. Again and again she resolutely
cleared her eyes, under the shelter of her veil, when passing
strangers noticed her; and again and again the tears found their
way back. Oh, if the girls at the school were to see her now--the
girls who used to say in their moments of sadness, "Let us go to
Emily and be cheered"--would they know her again? She sat down to
rest and recover herself on the nearest bench. It was unoccupied.
No passing footsteps were audible on the remote path to which she
had strayed. Solitude at home! Solitude in the Park! Where was
Cecilia at that moment? In Italy, among the lake s and mountains,
happy in the company of her light-hearted friend.

The lonely interval passed, and persons came near. Two sisters,
girls like herself, stopped to rest on the bench.

They were full of their own interests; they hardly looked at the
stranger in mourning garments. The younger sister was to be
married, and the elder was to be bridesmaid. They talked of their
dresses and their presents; they compared the dashing bridegroom
of one with the timid lover of the other; they laughed over their
own small sallies of wit, over their joyous dreams of the future,
over their opinions of the guests invited to the wedding. Too
joyfully restless to remain inactive any longer, they jumped up
again from the seat. One of them said, "Polly, I'm too happy!"
and danced as she walked away. The other cried, "Sally, for
shame!" and laughed, as if she had hit on the most irresistible
joke that ever was made.

Emily rose and went home.

By some mysterious influence which she was unable to trace, the
boisterous merriment of the two girls had roused in her a sense
of revolt against the life that she was leading. Change, speedy
change, to some occupation that would force her to exert herself,
presented the one promise of brighter days that she could see. To
feel this was to be inevitably reminded of Sir Jervis Redwood.
Here was a man, who had never seen her, transformed by the
incomprehensible operation of Chance into the friend of whom she
stood in need--the friend who pointed the way to a new world of
action, the busy world of readers in the library of the Museum.

Early in the new week, Emily had accepted Sir Jervis's proposal,
and had so interested the bookseller to whom she had been
directed to apply, that he took it on himself to modify the
arbitrary instructions of his employer.

"The old gentleman has no mercy on himself, and no mercy on
others," he explained, "where his literary labors are concerned.
You must spare yourself, Miss Emily. It is not only absurd, it's
cruel, to expect you to ransack old newspapers for discoveries in
Yucatan, from the time when Stephens published his 'Travels in
Central America'--nearly forty years since! Begin with back
numbers published within a few years--say five years from the
present date--and let us see what your search over that interval
will bring forth."

Accepting this friendly advice, Emily began with the
newspaper-volume dating from New Year's Day, 1876.

The first hour of her search strengthened the sincere sense of
gratitude with which she remembered the bookseller's kindness. To
keep her attention steadily fixed on the one subject that
interested her employer, and to resist the temptation to read
those miscellaneous items of news which especially interest
women, put her patience and resolution to a merciless test.
Happily for herself, her neighbors on either side were no idlers.
To see them so absorbed over their work that they never once
looked at her, after the first moment when she took her place
between them, was to find exactly the example of which she stood
most in need. As the hours wore on, she pursued her weary way,
down one column and up another, resigned at least (if not quite
reconciled yet) to her task. Her labors ended, for the day, with
such encouragement as she might derive from the conviction of
having, thus far, honestly pursued a useless search.

News was waiting for her when she reached home, which raised her
sinking spirits.

On leaving the cottage that morning she had given certain
instructions, relating to the modest stranger who had taken
charge of her correspondence--in case of his paying a second
visit, during her absence at the Museum. The first words spoken
by the servant, on opening the door, informed her that the
unknown gentleman had called again. This time he had boldly left
his card. There was the welcome name that she had expected to
see--Alban Morris.